


Sleepwalkers

by mountaindews



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Memory Loss, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Injuries, Mentions of accidents, Tags will be added as they become relevant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9773999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountaindews/pseuds/mountaindews
Summary: Two years after graduating from high school, Makoto Yuuki wakes up in an hospital bed, not recognizing his surroundings and the people outside his door. Not even the man sleeping on his bed, truthfully. What he has left is pictures, and people’s memories. But if neither are to be trusted, then what’s to be?(In which Makoto doesn't remember, and everybody else remembers far too much.)« What’s your name? »« Makoto… Yuuki. »« How old are you? »« Twenty. »« Your mother’s name? »« I… I don’t remember. »« What high school did you graduate from? »White. Pure white.« I don’t know. »





	1. consciousness

Rain is tapping lightly on the glass of the window, as if asking for permission to enter, when he wakes up.

He blinks fast, trying to adjust his weak eyes to the dim lightning of the room, before attempting to sit up. A mistake. His chest bursts in a red, violent wave of pain and nausea; his head hits the pillow a bit too harshly, as the room spins and spins in circles, and his stitches pull on the paper-thin skin, trying to break free from their restraints.

He looks around again, trying to recognize something, anything. Nothing. His mind is blank, a white sheet, a void so pure it’s almost scary. Glasses rest on the bedside table; big, blue glasses.They’re his, he knows by heart, and he’d gladly reach for them if he could move, but he doesn’t trust his body to reach out, so he blinks, trying to focus more on what’s near him. A letter. Flowers. Medicines, IV drips that end under the skin of his arm. Blood has just started rising up the tube of one of them, so he hopes someone will come and change it soon.

Outside the small window on the door, sitting messily on the plastic chairs, three people are sleeping on each other. In the dark light, and without glasses, he can barely make out the shapes and shades – a red haired boy clinging to someone whose face is hidden in a blanket and head is covered by a way too loose wool hat, with a cute pompom hanging off a side. The third person is squished between them, and their arms hold the three of them together. He wonders if it’s for warmth, for affection, or just not to fall from the chairs.

_ They should bring back memories. Or feelings.  _ He’s sure he’s supposed to know them. The way strands of orange hair fall out yet another loose hat reminds him of  _ something,  _ a blurred feeling that’s just quite there, ungraspable, slipping from his fingers. Instead, he feels like he’s staring at strangers, and that’s enough of a scary thought to make him look away. Away, to something – someone, he hasn’t seen before.

The grey light seeping through the beige curtains does hardly anything to illuminate his face and make him recognizable (not that he would anyways,  _ but _ ) but more than that do the bandages on his neck and around his head, closing him in a mess of white and pink antiseptic gauze. Little, pale spots of red have blossomed on them, like roses in a white garden. Briefly, he wonders if he should get his bandages changed, and if he’s supposed to be here in the first place. He’s sleeping, body stiffly abandoned in a chair, face hidden in his arms; his silver hair falls unruly on his neck, making the candid mess of hair, gauze and white bedsheets look almost like a sketch on a canvas.

Everything is white. Just like his mind.

Is he supposed to know all these people? Probably yes. Then why doesn’t he remember everything at all?

_ Red lights. Yellow lights. A warm feeling, before the crash. _

An accident… maybe?

His eyelids feel heavy.

His consciousness slips away without him even noticing, the even breaths of the silver stranger and the sound of the rain outside lulling him to sleep again.

****

« What’s your name? »

« Makoto… Yuuki. »

« When’s your birthday? »

« Thirtieth of April. »

« How old are you? »

« Twenty. »

« Your mother’s name? »

« I… I don’t remember. »

His ears ring. The nurse on his right, taking his blood pressure, frowns; her lips, pink with gloss, are making an ugly curve he doesn’t really like. The doctor reading the questions from his notebook doesn’t even flinch, blinking just once before writing something down.

« What high school did you graduate from? »

White. Pure white.

« I don’t know. »

The light of day brought news; there’s gauze on his arms and around his head, bandages keeping him together. Not that there’s much to keep together, anyway.

The person sleeping on his bed was gone with the light of the dawn, and Makoto wonders if he dreamed of him. The boys outside, however ( _ Trickstar,  _ they called themselves; what an amusing name, he smiled) haven’t budged an inch, and now they’re peeking inside the room from the small glass window, waiting to see him. Him. Makoto Yuuki. They have expectations, they have memories of him being their friend  _ (friend) _ and he doesn’t even remember their names. He lets his body sink in the too soft mattress, relishing the coolness of the bed sheets.

« You had an accident. Do you remember it? »

The nurse smiles, her lips stretching in their blemished pink glory. Her smile is friendly, but her voice is clinical. His head hurts.

« N-not really. »

« You and Sena-san were hit by a car. You rolled over the guardrail, hitting your head multiple times, and you’ve broken your left leg. You needed an operation to put your bone back in place, and currently there’s a metallic support in your leg. After that, you’ve been awake for a bit, but you were in a kind of comatose state, so you probably won’t remember. Overall, it’s a miracle you suffered no severe internal damage. »

_ A miracle.  _ He can read far too clearly behind her words.  _ It’s almost unbelievable you didn’t die.  _ He recalls the feeling of being suspended, of feeling nothing, barely even the pain. The feeling of slipping away. Red and black behind his eyelids.

His head hurts more.

« Sena… san? »

The nurse blinks before answering. It’s a pitying look.

« He’s your flatmate. He was the one driving when you had the accident. You don’t remember him at all? »

_ No,  _ he wants to say, and lift this weight off his chest. His flatmate. He didn’t even remember he was living with someone. But something – something sparkles inside him. Not a memory. Just logic.

« Does he have white… silver hair? »

_ He doesn’t see any reason as to why someone wrapped in gauzes should have been in his room. This Sena must really care about him. _

But the nurse doesn’t know, and she smiles as she nods, looking over to the two doctors talking in a low voice in the corner of the room.

« Exactly. Do you remember his full name? No? It’s Izumi Sena-san. »

« You seem to know more about me than myself. » he tries, with a semblance of a smile. His face feels sore and pulling up the corners of his mouth enough to smile is tiring, but it’s worth it.  _ He hopes. _

« You’ve been in the spotlight until a year and a half ago, Yuuki-san – »

« Makoto. » he mumbles, hating to interrupt her, but feeling obliged.  _ Yuuki-san _ makes something unpleasant churn in his guts.

« Makoto-san. » she repeats, tasting the name on her tongue « You and the other Trickstar guys. You’ve been one of the most successful junior idol groups in the last twenty years up until you graduated from Yumenosaki. Sena-san was an idol, as well. »

Idols. He looks down at his hand, bruised and red, as if looking for clues, memories. An idol…? Him? 

Just… how much has he forgotten?

(And how much of it will come back?)

****

They don’t allow visits on his first day awake. Which he finds unfair, because the Trickstar boys (his ex bandmates, and best friends, as the orange haired boy – Subaru…? – yelled loudly at the nurse who had just proclaimed visits were  _ strictly forbidden _ ) seem really nice. They disappear altogether for a few hours in the afternoon and come back looking nicer and refreshed, wearing different clothes.

_ They haven’t left the hospital in almost two weeks,  _ the nurse told him,  _ they were waiting for you to wake up. _

The light is dim again (it’s been awhile since lights out, after all), but his eyes don’t burn as much. His gaze jumps from one corner of the room to the other, relentlessly.

The wheelchair. The withered roses. The bits of a life that doesn’t belong to him.

_ He,  _ he looks up to the glass of the window, so clean he can see his reflection,  _ is Makoto Yuuki. Who are you? _

With heavy steps and nurses yelling in the background, late in the afternoon, even Izumi Sena-san made a little appearance. Makoto got just a glimpse of his unruly silver hair from the window of his door, and a taste of his voice (melodic, low, soothing, even though it had a rough pitch; the pitch of sickness, his mind noted) before the angered nurses dragged him back to his own room, and out of his sight. Out of the range of his poor memories.

As expected, he sparked  _ nothing _ . Less than nothing. He finds it kind of worrying, since he’s supposedly seen him everyday for the last two years, and in high school, as well.  _ Maybe seeing just the back of his head won’t do,  _ he hides his head under the covers, sighing,  _ maybe I have to wait. _

The hospital is very quiet at night. It leaves space to think and breathe, but since he’s willing to do anything but think, for now, he just closes his eyes.

The letter on his bedside table has been a frustrating read. He recognized at least seven different handwritings without being able to pair them up with someone, a face, a tiny memory. Different voices were reminding him of things he’s forgotten –  _ pollen allergies, a cherry blossom festival, radio broadcastings, a tennis tournament, that time he helped wash someone’s dog –  _ and a lot of signatures, nicknames, stars. Subaru, Hokke, Sari, Koga, Rei, Ara-nee, Shinobu, Nazuna, Tori, Yuzuru Fushimi, Ritsu, names, names, too many names, too much guilt suffocating him.

It’s not his fault if he can’t remember, something inside him whispers. And he will, eventually.

Just one name caught his attention.  _ Sari.  _ Funny as it may be (it has nothing to do with him, and yet) he remembers it being the nickname Subaru (that’s his name… right?) gave to Mao. He doesn’t quite get  _ why,  _ but that’s one of the few things he remembers clearly. Maybe he should talk about it with the other Trickstar tomorrow.

_ Sari.  _ It gives off a warm feeling, and fuzzy memories echo in the back of his mind. Sari, Hokke, Ukki… Subaru used to call him Ukki. He’s making progress! His smile gets cut off by a yawn, and he lets his head sink a little further in the pillow.

****

_ It’s so distant, like a dream. He can’t even tell if he’s awake; he can’t move, can’t open his eyes. _

_ The voices outside his door are low, but they slip through the thin walls, dripping like poison in his ears. _

_ « He could have died. » He can almost see him, green eyes full of tears, clenched fists, gaze pointed low to the marble tiles of the floor, « he could have died, and you – » _

_ The second speaker does hardly anything to hide his sobs. Or, maybe, he’s trying, but they’re too hard to let him. He wonders. Someone’s back hits the wall with a small thumping noise. _

_ « I know, » comes the muffled reply, in the voice pitched down by sickness., « I know. » _

_ A cry, a keen. A fist hits the wall. _

_ « I would have never forgiven you. » _

_ « I wouldn’t have forgiven myself, either. You’re not the only ones who care about him. » _

_ « You’re the last person on Earth who can claim that, you ba – » _

_ « Mao-kun, » a third voice, calm, collected, steps in, « calm down. You’re shouting. » _

_ Labored breaths are the only thing he can hear for a couple of seconds. Even the sobs have died down. _

_ « I’m happy you made it out without too many scratches. » the voice has toned down, and has an apologetic, soft tone now. The second speaker sniffs loudly, muttering something he can’t catch « Promise. Promise you will take care of him when we can’t be there. » _

_ « I would have done it even without telling you. » There's a lingering bitterness through the low pitch and the tears, but it makes the speaker sound much more  _ right,  _ for some strange reason « but I promise you. » _

_ There’s no more speaking after that, just whispering. _


	2. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's good being home, but he'd rather have never left, that's for sure.

The sun shines bright through the open windows, flooding the apartment with light.  _ Too bright.  _ Makoto closes his eyes, blinking fast for a couple of seconds before opening them again and letting his gaze roam over the furniture.

« Welcome back home, Yuu-kun » Izumi is struggling to push his wheelchair, but pretends to be fine, which Makoto finds borderline amusing given how red his face has become. « It’s been a little lonely without you. »

The first thing that he notices is the ridiculous amount of pictures. In frames, on the walls, everywhere; pictures of him with Trickstar, pictures of Izumi-san with people he barely recognizes – a small guy with red hair, the black-haired, vampire looking man who came to visit them at the hospital. It’s been almost a month since he’s been let out, a month he spent with his mother, far from everybody else. His mother barely allowed any visits, saying he needed time to recover. And yes, he did, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed the warmth of visits a little bit, even though it’d mostly been people he barely remembered. They left flowers and promises and sweet words.  _ Get well soon, we’ll be waiting.  _ Not remembering them didn’t feel as suffocating, now that he knew they didn’t mind, and that was astonishing progress.

« Thank you, Izumi-san » he’s playing with his thumbs as he looks around, through the framed memories he finds little more than empty. « It’s good being home. »

The thing he notices a second later: Izumi-san appears to be posing in all pictures. A hand perfectly rested on his hip, lips parted, eyes staring straight in the camera. It’s almost funny. No matter what picture he looks at, he’s posing like a model, perfect, in a sea of bright eyes and open mouths and wide smiles. His poses falter a little when it’s pictures of the two of them – there’s just a couple, but Izumi-san’s smile looks brighter there, and his very core shivers.

_ You’re the last person on Earth who can claim that.  _ Mao’s words, his hurtful, bitter whispers, have been echoing in Makoto’s mind for a while. He still doesn’t know what he meant. He still remembers nothing of Izumi, apart from the fact that they moved in together two years ago, after he graduated from high school.  _ To split the bills,  _ his mind suggested, but he can’t tell if that was the reason, or if it’s just his logical instinct taking the lead.  _ For convenience. His flat is the closest to the university you both attend. He offered and you accepted without reflecting too much over it. _ Which didn’t seem to have made Trickstar delighted, for some reason. But he trusts his two years ago self to have made the right choice. After all, he could have just moved out if that wasn’t the case.

« I tidied up your room a bit, I hope you don’t mind… you left a mess, and it was a dusty mess by the time we got out of the hospital. » There’s a smile lingering in his voice and Makoto can’t tell if he minds, since he can’t even picture what his room looks like. « I didn’t move anything, though, aside from some laundry and games you left on the floor. »

He looks around as Izumi helps him lie down on his bed; his room is not the biggest, but it’s nice anyway. There’s just a couple of pictures here – one was probably taken on his graduation day, and he can perfectly tell all Trickstar apart by now, so seeing their smiling faces is kind of a relief. One was taken during a festival of some sort, and there’s fireworks in the background as Subaru smiles too widely, holding him and Mao close (Hokuto pops up in the back, mouth slightly open as if he’s been caught talking.) Really, it’s a terrible picture. Their faces are all flushed and their poses are terrible, but their eyes are sparkling so much as they look in the camera; his past self knows best, but he can feel the vibrant emotion coming out of the frame, so it’s no wonder why that picture made it on his wall. The last –

« Just call me if you need anything, okay? »

« Did you just become my nurse or something? »

Izumi blinks, as he bends down to fish some medicines out of a big blue bag.

« I learned first aid to patch your tennis wounds up in high school. I’ve been your nurse all along, Yuu-kun. »

The slightly endearing image of Izumi-san in a nurse outfit pops up briefly in his brain, but he’s quick to blink it away. No. Just… no.

« I’ll be in my room, but I’ll leave my door open. Call me if you need anything, and, oh, » Izumi’s voice drops a bit, and his hand lingers on the doorframe as he’s stepping out of his room « your friends are coming over today. So tell me if you want to have dinner before they come, or if you’ll eat with them. I told them no junk food is allowed, but if they manage to bring some, I beg you to avoid eating it. It’ll mess up your stomach. »

Maybe he’s not supposed to light up when it’s clear that Izumi-san is not on good terms with Trickstar – but he can’t keep himself from smiling when he hears it.  _ They’re coming over to see him. _ It’s the first time in a month and half they’re spending time together outside a hospital room, with a nurse watching over them, or in a cramped bedroom, having to pay attention to the drips in his arms.

Still, he just nods, keeping his excitement burning in his belly.

« I won’t, Izumi-san » he promises, trying to make his voice sound as serious and mature as possible in an attempt to hide the mischievous smile on his face now that Izumi-san’s back is partially turned to the door, « You sound like my big brother when you talk to me like this. »

Izumi’s hand visibly clenches on the wood of the doorframe at that. Oh no,  _ no.  _ He’s said something wrong.

_ That’s the con with not remembering him.  _ But he can’t say that, can he?

« Izumi-san, I – »

« No, no, it’s okay. It’s just – » Izumi licks his lips; Makoto can see his tongue disappear between them again, peeking wet and pink between bite-bruised red « you used to call me big brother when we were kid models, Yuu-kun. Of course you wouldn’t remember it, I’m – I’m the one who’s sorry. Just call me for dinner later. »

The third picture is by his window, and it’s a picture of him reading by the same window. A ray of light hits his back, making his hair look almost white, fading into a warm gold around his face. He’s barefoot, with his legs messily crossed, and wearing a hoodie that’s a little too short in the front; a small portion of his stomach can be seen just above the hem of his jeans. It’s been taken from the door, probably, and not much of his face is truly distinguishable in the light – but his lips are curved up slightly, in a peaceful, happy smile. He can barely recognize himself.

_ That’s me –  _ no, that’s  _ him, _ himself before the accident. With his memories, truer feelings, and not hurting people without meaning to. Izumi’s steps are light and quick down the hall, a small proof that he’s lied, he’s not going to his room. Makoto sighs, letting his sore body relax on the bed (his bed, after so long) and closes his eyes.

It’s good being home, but he’d rather never left it, that’s for sure.

****

His laptop, he has the pleasure to find out a couple of hours later (after a good nap in his good old bed), is full of pictures as well. His fingers had typed the password out naturally – he didn’t even remember having a password, honestly, and he didn’t expect it to be  _ hokkesmells.  _ But some things get past memories – and, as the hint for the password reveals him, it’s an inside joke between him and Subaru. He’s smiling again at something so small. Oh, damn.

All the pictures are organized by years and months, but that’s not caring love work, just his laptop working a little bit too precisely. Unsurprisingly enough, it’s mostly Trickstar. He clicks through them fast, trying to recall something, anything, from the blurred colors of what appears to be a bad cellphone camera.

Subaru and his dog, Subaru in a tree. Subaru waving at them from the tree – Subaru falling from the tree, a twenty five second video.

Pictures of them in their unit’s outfit, of them after lives,  being dropped off at someone’s house. He can recall it, now, the feeling of sleeping close to each other, in futons, in small, single beds, still full of adrenaline as it wore off. It’s not truly a memory, but it’s  _ there,  _ and he’s grateful for it. It’s something so beautiful his breath hitches for a second.

(Or maybe that’s just his blood pressure playing on him.  _ Ah! Nice one, blood.) _

Graduation pictures. Of their graduation and, farther down in the folders, of Izumi-san’s year’s graduation. A boy with shining reddish eyes and brown hair is hugging both Subaru and Mao in one picture, as a tall student in the background tries to get away, getting cut from the frame. The basketball club. The hugger was their captain, without a doubt.

Izumi-san doesn’t appear in many pictures, other than being in the background of some. He definitely has his own pictures, after all. There’s a photograph of their tennis club, and he’s leaning on Tori’s head, who’s smiling and posing like nothing is happening.  _ He probably shouted a lot after the picture was taken,  _ Makoto smiles. He’s smiling in the picture, as well, him and Nazuna holding up peace signs as they hug each other’s shoulder with their free hand. The broadcasting committee pictures aren’t too different – Shinobu looks like he’s on the verge of tears in every single one of them, apart from the last, with him and Nazuna kissing one of his cheeks each. He has a really pretty smile, truth to be told.

The last picture of the graduation ones, surprisingly, is the two of them. Izumi has his head on his shoulder, a hand on his hip, and he’s unbelievably not posing; he’s just smiling at their proximity, and Makoto would die before admitting it out loud, but he has a really…  _ cute _ … smile. On the other hand, he’s smiling, too, and his cheeks are lightly flushed as he hugs Izumi’s shoulders.

_ This picture used to be hung in your room,  _ a voice whispers, uncalled for.  _ You took it down to replace it with another one. _

He blinks, looking up to the walls.  _ What other one? _

The voice doesn’t answer; it stays silent, pretending it never spoke up in the first place. Frustrating. But since that’s the source of some of his memories – he ignores it, for now, coming back down to his laptop.

When high school ends, the pictures change. It’s still mostly Trickstar – but he starts being in the pictures a lot more, and the settings change, too. A long stack of pictures is of a party in this apartment; happy faces, familiar faces, sleeping faces after a couple of clicks. Shinobu cuddled to a tiny boy with short, bright orange hair, who appears to be fine and up in the following picture – no, wait – they’re two.  _ The twins,  _ he wants to slap himself for that,  _ the Aoi twins.  _ The one that’s up, wearing a light pink shirt, is posing happily with… Sakuma,  _ yes, _ Sakuma Rei-san in the following picture, and Mao is leaning against the counter with a careless smile in the very left, near the cut. It’s Mao again in the next photos, Mao laughing at something, Mao reaching for something over the cut (probably a glass, he decides), Mao and him smiling at the person behind the camera, Subaru popping in the picture. Everything’s so  _ vibrant,  _ so alive.

_ And he doesn’t remember it.  _ He has no memories of this party. The burning, frustrating feeling of unnecessary guilt is gripping his guts again, and he scrolls through the pictures faster, without really looking at them anymore.

The last two years are all a blur of Trickstar and random photographs, with some Izumi-san between one and the other. Izumi-san having breakfast, holding a mug to his lips as he reads something from his phone. Izumi-san frowning at a game over screen, controller in his hands, sitting on the floor in this room. Izumi-san with a pink handkerchief around his head, on tiptoes, cleaning the windows in the living room.

« He looks ridiculous, » he murmurs, reaching for a dirty spot on his monitor, stroking it clean.

« Then why are you petting my cheek in the picture? »

He’s really this close to tossing his laptop to the ground.

« I’m not stroking your cheek! » he yelps, and the stitches pull, leaving him breathless for a second. Izumi is by his side in a flash, a hand gently pressed on his stomach, staring right in his eyes.

« Are you alright, Yuu-kun? »

He forces a smile, and the hand gets taken back fast, like his skin has suddenly become searing hot under the light fabric of his pajama shirt.

« I–I just need a second to breathe. »

I _ zumi-san has changed.  _ He’s not the same person plastically posing in the photographs. His eyes are circled in a dark black, his lips are chapped, dry, and his pale, fair skin is littered with white scar marks, way too visible now that he’s close. Speaking of proximity –

« I’m sorry I startled you, I didn’t mean to. » Izumi’s voice is low, sweet and apologizing as he takes a step back, looking down at the laptop « I… I heard you giggling and figured you were looking at the pictures. I wondered if you needed a hand with putting together dates and such, but you don’t need me, I guess. I shouldn’t butt in. »

« You’re not intruding. » With a great sacrifice of will, Makoto pats the little space on the bed next to him, hearing his sore chest scream in the process. « You can stay. If you want. »

_« Secchan is sensible, you know? Like a child » the vampire guy had said, one month ago, as he fixed the flowers in the vase by his bed; his half-lidded red eyes were kind of hypnotic, kind of creepy as he blinked, slowly, turning to him._ _« Especially when it comes to you. I figure he’ll become just more sensible after you move back in together, so be a little patient with him. He loves you most, after all. »_

_ He loves you most,  _ the person who seems to be great friends with Mao-kun had said,  _ be patient with him. _ But he’s also  _ the last person who can claim he cares about you.  _ Maybe Izumi-san’s right about not butting in his having scattered memories - just little fragments that could help him understand. His head really starts to hurt at things like these.

Izumi-san looks hesitant, like he’s weighing the choices and consequences. Then, the covers shift under him, and the mattress sinks deeper with both their weights. A little more, Makoto decides, and they’ll break into the apartment of those living a floor down.

« The pictures of the party… it’s the party you decided to have when you moved in. » He sounds pretty neutral, and careful, but his eyes look a little less heavy in the bright light of the laptop, and there’s a slight smile on his lips. « I told you to do whatever you wanted, it was your flat as well, but not to invite too many people. You ended up inviting half the Yumenosaki graduates, and knights too, without telling me. It was a really nice night. »

« I don’t remember it. » It’s the first time he admits it out loud, without being asked to. He just blinks, not looking away from the monitor, where nobody has scrolled past Izumi-san cleaning the windows. « I don’t remember much of these last two years. »

It’s crushing. He’s looking at his past self like a stranger would do, almost, taking up his place. An alien with his face, a bad impression of his personality, and little to no memories of the ones around him. His chest hurts. His face feels sore. Izumi-san tentatively slides his hand over his, bottom lip trembling a bit as he speaks.

It feels… weird. But he doesn’t ask him to move his hand.

« It’s okay, Yuu-kun. You didn’t choose to forget. And helping you… it’s up to us. Don’t feel obliged to remember everything now. »

Makoto lowers his gaze, scrolling to the next picture with a small sigh.

« I’m making everyone uncomfortable, aren’t I? »

The Izumi-san in the picture, water up to his knees (almost touching his rolled-up jeans) is smiling, looking a little left in an attempted pose. The Izumi-san sitting next to him doesn’t smile, but clenches his fingers a little over his.

« You’re not. If anything, we’re the ones making you confused. Everything must be overwhelming for you, and we’re hardly making it easier. »

Frozen in the photographs, it’s a pale March morning on a desolate beach. The water must have been cold – but Izumi-san stays in the water for more than a couple of shots, rolling his pants higher and higher, up to his mid-thighs as he marches forward, a little step at a time. The person behind the camera must have called out to him a couple of times, because he’s turned to them in some shots, lips parted and hands on his hips as he speaks.  _ It’s not even that cold,  _ probably. Horrified to find a shot of just clothes on the sand, Makoto scrolls as Izumi-san cuddles a little bit more to him, trying to hide the now full, yet little smile on his face. He looks relaxed, at last, and Makoto lets him do as he pleases, letting his head tip to the side and rest on his shoulder.

A white back disappears into the waves, blending with the sky full of clouds. Water droplets drip down impossibly perfect skin, from wet hair, following a path scripted by a thin yet built body, ribs and collarbones pressing up whenever he breathes. Makoto feels almost like a voyeur, looking at these pictures.

_ Why does he have them, anyway? _

« Wasn’t it cold? »

Names, written in the sand. They’re blurred and half erased, so he scrolls without looking at them.

« I still have chills thinking about it. Probably the biggest mistake I’ve made before – »

The next picture is of Izumi-san holding a paper cup, smiling. He has a hat and a scarf on, and his nose’s a little red.

« That’s a bad cold, » he points out, cutting him mid-sentence before it gets too dark; that’s not something they need right now, at all. « Your nose’s all red. »

« It’s not  _ all red. _ » Izumi bites his lips, frowning crimson. « Just a little. I wasn’t that sick. »

Most of the following pictures are just Izumi-san in places, smiling at the camera. He has no clue on  _ why _ there’s so many, considering there wasn’t so much before. A side look at the date.  _ Two weeks before the accident. _

« Izumi-san, » he turns to him slightly, looking up from his shoulder « what are tho… »

Maybe it’s because of the dim lights, maybe it’s the comfy bed. Maybe it’s the thought of being finally home and safe, but Izumi-san’s asleep, mouth open and hand still on his, face finally free from that worried pout. It didn’t really suit him.

_ Be patient with him.  _ So Makoto sighs, putting the laptop away on his bedside table, and his glasses on it.

« He loves me most, huh? » he mutters, turning off the lights.

He decides he doesn’t care who’s right, as he gently takes his hand away to curl it in his lap, and closes his eyes.

The only thing that matters, for now, is sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINGS STARTS TO HAPPEN, FINALLY  
> I!! don't know what to say so I will leave the words to you!! Kudos, comments and any kind of feedback are really greatly appreciated gfrhej there will be more happening soon, but for now, enjoy this little pearl of suffering  
> drop by my twitter for a live screaming on the fic, 23/7: @natsumaos!

**Author's Note:**

> … so it starts.  
> This fic means really, really a lot to me. I've been working on it for five months now, it had its ups and downs, and the only reason I'm posting it now is I have just withdrawn from the thing I wrote it for, ahah. So every tiny bit of feedback is helpful, because I – I'm still not really sure whether I'm going down with everything I have planned or not, and even the tiniest bit of encouragement means everything to me. So, thank you so, so much for having read the first chapter! I promise I won't leave you hanging for long.  
> This fic will be, and honestly is, a mess, but I hope you'll like it! ;;; God. I'm feeling so emotional right now.  
> If you're really impatient, I usually post drafts and wips on my twitter! @natsumaos, and I'm there for!!! constant yelling. And occasional fic updates, that is.  
> BIG SHOUTOUT TO MY PROOFREADER!!! Thank you, Kye! You're the sibling I need but do not deserve. I love you. Thank you for everything you do for me. ;;  
> Thank you, thank you again! Until next time!~


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